Haley Myers as Captain Ori Alon

He didn’t expect to find her like this.

The conservatory was being pattered with rain on its glass walls and roof, the hothouse flowers in bloom, the large potted ferns and fronds crowding the small chaise and table where she sat curled up, book in one hand, cup of tea in the other. She was dressed neatly in khakis and a dark blue turtleneck, her pince-nez glasses perched delicately on the bridge of her nose. Her hair was loosely gathered and pinned up out of her face. She looked like a school marm, albeit a rather attractive one. Not a woman currently out with the GAF for assault with a deadly weapon.

“Stop staring,” she murmured, without looking up from her book. “It’s impolite.”

Cary Tyler hadn’t realized he was holding his breath; at her admonition, he let it out with a low rush. “Sorry,” he said, moving into the room and looking for a seat, choosing a wrought iron bench near her. “I just didn’t expect to find you so…” he searched for the right word, “...calm.”

“I’m only a murderous psychotic on alternate Tuesdays and bank holidays,” she replied, still reading, her tone smooth and nonplussed. “What do you want, Tyler?”

“Are you okay?” was his opening salvo.

She set the book in her lap, sipped her tea, and looked over at him. “Do you really expect me to be able to answer that to your satisfaction?”

Tyler shifted. She had always made him a little nervous. And irritated. That damn British poise and vaguely haughty attitude. “Look, Ori. I’m on your side, all right? Stop treating me like you’re about to hit my palm with a ruler and stick me in the corner.”

“I’ve been court martialed, dishonorably discharged from the GAF, and am seen by the populace as either an unhinged demoness or an antihero spokesperson for the disenfranchised Campaign vets. Do you really think I’m ‘okay’?”

“I’m sorry,” Tyler sighed. “I’m not here to play psychologist. I wanted to check in on you, and offer you a job.”

Her laugh was short, clear, and biting. “Of course that’s it. I never was able to find the slightest hint of altruism on you, Tyler.” She sobered after. “But I promise that you absolutely do not want to hire me. I can only bring bad cess down on Isely, from a PR standpoint.”

“We’re not putting this mission’s details out to the general public. Our researchers want an anomaly checked out in the Norma Arm, and I want a very, very good crew taking it on.”

“I’m not stable. You’ve seen the coverage. I shot a Corporal straight between the legs, without provocation, while on duty.” Tone flat. “He almost died.”

“He killed Jim,” Tyler replied evenly.

She glanced away and seemed to be drawn elsewhere in her mind. “Yes. He killed Jim. Garrotted my husband and then put a bullet through his forehead.” Looking back at Tyler, her smile was tight, thin. “But we’re all friends now. We’re all on the same side, you see.”

Tyler shifted to lean a bit forward. “The Global Alliance botched it, Ori. They made it into a disaster. There should have been protocols in place, a year at least to integrate, counseling available, honorable discharges for anyone who wanted out...there should have been a hell of a lot more. So, I don’t blame you, or anyone, for the fallout. You can’t pitch people into war and then demand everyone get along the next day. It was a mess. You didn’t deserve that.”

“None of us did,” she said bitterly. “But I suppose most handled it far better than I.”

“You’d lost Jim two weeks before the end of the Campaign,” said Tyler. “Two weeks, and then they dropped you in front of the man who’d murdered him and told you to kiss and make up. No one with half a brain could blame you for what you did. Hell, I’m impressed you didn’t blow his head off.”

“I wanted to,” admitted Ori with a shrug. “But I thought I’d hit him where it’d hurt most.”

And she had. The doctors could do marvels with reconstructive surgery, but he’d never be the same, and he’d never be...organic...as he was. Carter Haithe. The American corporal who’d reached out his meaty hand to her in that rec hall and grinned and said no hard feelings. He wasn’t sorry he’d done it at all. To him, Jim was a casualty only. And the horrible thing was that the GAF felt the same way.

So she’d taken out her gun and turned him from a rooster to a hen with one shot. It’d been two months since the trial and she was still getting death threats from soldiers. She was also getting flowers, money, and cheers from soldiers, too. The ones who had lost so much, too, to the war, and now couldn’t understand why they had to forgive and forget and get on with serving.

“Are you even legally permitted to hire me?” Ori wondered aloud.

“Captain, without sounding too Dystopian Capitalist Hellscape-y, the GAF does not tell Isely what it can and can’t do. I know that’s some next-level conspiracy talk, but it’s true, for good or ill.” Tyler shrugged. “Also, yes. It’s legal. They might not like it, but it is.”

“And the crew. Have you gotten anyone?”

Tyler grinned. “Everyone. You’re the last. I did that so you could see how serious we are about getting you aboard.” Taking a datapad from his inner suit pocket, he propped it up on the small table and touched a button to display a projection of a dossier, complete with picture. “Your pilot - Fisher Lincoln. One of the best and brightest up-comers in the GAF.”

Ori looked at him sharply. “You’re recruiting from active military?”

“Calm down, ma’am; she’s on leave due to an accident.”

“Oh, marvelous,” Ori sait, tipping her gaze ceilingward. “Not even out of dock and already a walking wounded.”

“Hey,” Tyler chided. “She’s medically sound. More than, actually. Her accident was severe, but Isely patched her up with bleeding edge tech. She’s better than okay.” He looked steadily at Ori. “Trust me on that.”

“Oh, God, a golem pilot.” She sighed. “But she can fly?”

“She can soar. Did you hear the last name? Lincoln.”

“Oh,” murmured Ori. “I see. His sister?”

“Younger. And looks to have the same gifts in tow. I meant what I said, Captain. They’re all good.”

Ori touched the pad to shift to the next dossier. “Doyle Marshal. Engineer for Mising-Erystroph.” A low whistle. “Hoo. Well, at least I know he’ll be able to handle anything. Poor bastard.” Reading further, a brow lifted. “It seems I owe you an apology, Tyler. These credentials, while unorthodox, are very impressive.”

“He’s got a chip on his shoulder a lightyear wide, but he’s also got a heart for the unjustly-treated. So he’ll like you, guaranteed.”

“Irrelevant,” Ori murmured, shifting to the next page. “Ship’s doctor, Gideon Ford.” Her brow furrowed. “I haven’t heard of him.”

“He’s one of ours. Or was. He served as a medic during the Campaign. He’s brilliant, not just as a doctor, but as a theorist, researcher, innovator. It's an overload for the mission, I know, but I wanted a scientist on board to facilitate the observation of the anomaly.”

“What does Isely think it is?” Ori asked.

“Not sure. I’m a dunce at this stuff, but there’s whispers of Life Beyond Earth.” Tyler smiled sheepishly. “I’m not gonna start popping champagne corks yet but, hey, we have to investigate any possibility.”

“You’re lying,” Ori said, simply and without emotion. Tyler opened his mouth but she held up her hand. “It’s fine. I know you’re not about to send these kinds of people - people who will most certainly be missed - on a suicide run or another Ghost Nebula encounter. I just don’t want you to think you’re fooling me. I can almost guarantee you didn’t fool any of your Best and Brightest, either, when you recruited them. Nevermind,” she said, and touched a button for the next dossier. This one brought a real smile to her face. “You got Irix?”

Tyler nodded. “I did. But only because I told him you were the Captain.”

She leaned back, gazing at the profile pic with admiration. “Well. I certainly feel much more confident now with Irix on as Security. He’s not going to let anything happen to us, or the ship. I don’t think I’ve ever met a man more invested in life, and with the talent and skill to keep it safe.” A touch, another dossier. “Solus…” She flicked her gaze to Tyler. “You’re putting a Ghost on board?”

“Absolutely,” replied Tyler. “Solus has cyberpathy, Captain. And he’s a skilled purser. You’ll need both more than you realize, for as long as this trip is.”

She spent a moment reading. “And psychometry. Interesting. There’s mention of a GAF contract ending early…” She blinked. “Oh my God, he’s the Ghost who tapped into the Far-Gone.”

“It was a bad time for him,” Tyler answered, nodding. “But he’s recovered. And he’s also going to be ships’ counselor, which I know you’ll probably dismiss out of hand, but something tells me this band of misfits could use it down the line.”

“I’ll make no protest,” she conceded. “It’s a solid crew. You’ve done well, Tyler.”

“Then...Alhambra, one week?”

She nodded slowly. “One week.”

Jim,

Well, here it is. Final proof I’ve lost my mind. Instead of keeping a regular log, I’m writing to my dead husband. I don’t know; we communicated so much during the campaign like this, it just feel more comfortable. And, believe me, anyone unearthing this would not find it odd at all, considering the crew accompanying me. All of us, broken bits of this and that.

You’d love them.

I have Lt. Fisher Lincoln as my pilot. The name would ring a bell with you but that’s all, thank Heavens. My, ahm, ‘encounter’ with her older brother Harlan happened after you passed. Three weeks and four days after, to be precise. I know I don’t need to explain myself to you, but grief does terrible and terribly awkward things to people. I like Fisher, which seems surprising, given my opinion of the New Breed. But that gap that separates the war-torn and the bright-futures can be bridged with civility and patience. Plus, she’s a hell of a flyer. She had a bad accident, and Isely patched her with bleeding-edge prototypical nanotech. She seems to take that outcome in stride, but I worry a little. She’s young, she’s idealized, she’s...unspoiled. I’m praying that they didn’t do something to her they oughtn’t’ve.

Brought on to keep an eye on her is Dr. Gideon Ford. I looked him up just now - he’s a brilliant theoretical anatomist, and is vastly overqualified for a six-man jaunt to the Norma Arm. He doesn’t seem put-off by it, eager to be in proximity to Lincoln and affable enough with the rest of us. In fact, it’s his distinct lack of superiority that makes me a little suspicious. I want to talk to him about Lincoln, about other projects he’s done for Isely, about his work in general, but I wonder if it might put him on the defensive. That, and I doubt I’d understand much of it.

We have a Ghost named Solus. I know they’re not uncommon on ships, but this one is an Oubliette Ghost, not a GAF contract. He has cyberpathy, one of only two Ghosts in the world who do, which makes me very curious as to why they’d spare such a rare jewel for such a lackadaisical mission. Isely painted this trip as a little stroll to take a little peek at a little ol’ asteroid, and not one of us buys it. It’s not that I think Isely is outright lying; I just know they tend to play the Need-To-Know card very generously and often. I hope Solus will be able to keep us ahead of the game when it comes to the ship’s condition. I also hope the crew avail themselves of his role as ship’s counselor as well.

Doyle Marshal is our Engineer and, god’s teeth, did Isely pick a lolly. I say that with as much admiration as exasperation, because the man is clearly a mechanical genius. He also has DID. I don’t think Tyler knew that when he hired him, but he’s here now, and we need him, and I think he’s up for the task. He came from Misery, poor sot. If even half the rumors about that place are true, I’m glad he’s away from it. Risk or no, I’m glad he’s with us, too.

Irix is here. It’s like some bizarre, Dickensian twist, but he’s ship’s security. I’m not one to look cross-eyed at good fortune, Jim, because we could not ask for a better man keeping us safe, but his being here is the final little tick that makes me feel like the reasons Isely gave for each of the crew hires is not just flimsy, but immaterial entirely. Seeing him was...difficult. He’s from a different time, a different world, one of blood and smoke and valor. We were only on New Ford a few days, but it was a good and necessary respite from all the Insight had been put through. Gave the Americans Hell, as you know. I remember the evenings spent with Irix and his crew around the fire, hearing the stories, seeing what an indomitably exuberant race they were. I’m sorry Irix never got the chance to meet you, Jim. He would have liked you immensely.

We’re going into something shadowed, love. I don’t know if it’s truly dangerous, and I suspect it is not deadly, but I wish I could hear your voice, telling me to keep a stiff upper lip, and that you’d be waiting for me when I came home.

I don’t know where home even is, anymore.

Alon Out.

“Some madness doesn't act mad to begin with, sometimes it will knock politely at the door, and when you let it in, it'll simply sit in the corner without a fuss - and grow.”
― Nathan Filer, The Shock of the Fall

~*~

Well. A pretty mess you’re in, love.

She sat back in her chair, in her quarters, and set down her cup very carefully. “Yes. I know.”

I’m sorry. I wish I could help.

“Well, you can’t,” she replied, a little tightly. “You’re dead. You left me to become a murderer and a disgraced Captain and now, apparently, some sort of megalomaniacal Space Queen. Cheers.”

When you’re done sprinkling bitterness all over, could you tell me what you plan to do?

“About what?” she bit.

About them, love. About them. Because, as much as you’ll protest it, that’s what you’re thinking of. Not megalomaniacal yet. You can’t stop thinking about them.

“They’re my crew,” was her excuse. And it was a good one.

You rose in ranks to become a Captain for just that reason, Oriel. We both cared about people, and we both wanted to serve, but I was content to do it individually, going from person to person to patch them up. You were different. You wanted...what? Not to lead…

“To...to shelter,” she said, frowning in thought. “Maybe. To stand in front and take the blame, the responsibility, so they could fight free of burden.”

Take the blame, but not the glory?

“No. Never that. I hate - “ She flinched. “God, I hate that kind of attention. Which is why the Vermillion is tearing me to shreds. I would never invite that on myself. Never.”

But you did, love. Somewhere, some time, you did exactly that.

She took up her cup and cradled it in her hands. “And that’s the new duty, isn’t it? That’s my new task as Captain. To make them see, and accept, that we all did those things. In the future, in the past, in some sideline universe, we did all those terrible things. ‘I would never’ is all right to get through the first shock, but now...now I have to make them face the truth - we would. We did. Because until we all accept that truth, we can’t plan on how to keep it from happening. We can’t rest on our laurels, convinced we Could Never, so it can’t possibly happen.” She sipped the now-lukewarm tea, considering gravely. “We have to dig, gouge, probe until we find those infinitesimal kernels in our present selves, the ones that will someday, somewhere, some time sprout and grow and become those...monsters we met on that ship...and drive them out of us. Here. Now. Before whatever let them take root occurs.”

Putting the cup down once again, she took up the datapad with the logs on it, skimming through, as though she hadn’t already read them a dozen times over, poring over each word. “I’m concerned about all of them, but Fisher worries me the most at the moment.”

She was the only real victim of it all.

“And that’s my concern. I can tell the rest are shaken, shaken terribly, over what they found themselves doing, but Fisher is shaken from what was done to her. And that’s reasonable, of course, but...she needs to understand her own failing. That she didn’t fight. That she didn’t value her own soul and self enough to resist.”

That she trusted her Captain and crew? That she sacrificed herself for what they told her was Necessary and Good? You’d fault her for that, Ori?

“Yes!” she flared emphatically, rising. “Because if she hadn’t, the Vermillion would have failed. She was the lynchpin; without her the ship couldn’t function. She had the power to end it, and she didn’t.”

She begged not to be installed.

“Begged, Jim. Not fought. Not resisted. Begged. I will not have a beggar on this ship. Not when I know Fisher Lincoln is a soldier, perhaps one of the finest ever. That is her Could Never, and she hasn’t faced it. I know she’s distracted by that...that unbearable piece of technology in sickbay, but we’ve all been shown our darkest reflections, and she must see hers. Otherwise, she’ll be divided from us. She’ll wilt, and wither, and weep over what was done to her and we’ll lose her to begging. I will not let that happen. Not when we need to be a unit, all of us, together.”

And the rest?

Carefully, she reclaimed her seat and glanced downward. “A step at a time. A moment at a time. We tread carefully around each other’s pain and struggle to make sense of who we are and what we’ll become. But, most importantly, we act. We work, hard. We find answers and we spit in the face of the future. One thing I know about this crew - not one of them is weak. Not one of them will give up or give in. That is a powerful consolation. And a powerful motivator to do my damnedest to keep them safe.”

I hope there comes a time when you don’t need me any more, love.

“So do I,” she murmured. “But it’s not now. Now, I need you so much I could die.”

There was no response, and she was unsurprised.